GIFT  OF 


GTPT 


Burlingarne 
Ballads... 


WHEATON  HALE  BREWER 


i  V 


Burlingame  Ballads 

By  WHEATON  HALE  BREWER 


Burlingame,  California 

Burlingame  Publishing  Company 

1920 


These  verses  have  appeared  from  time  to 
time  in  The  Burlingame  Advance,  and  the 
author  desires  to  thank  the  publisher  of  that 
journal  for  his  courtesy  in  allowing  them  to 
be  reprinted. 

WHEATON  HALE  BREWER. 

Burlingame,  California, 
Deoerfiber  1 


GTPT 


Copyright   1920 
By   Burlingame   Publishing   Company 


We  have  built  our  homes  in  Burlingame  be 
cause  we  believe  that  it  is  the  most  beautiful 
spot  in  the  most  beautiful  country  in  the 
world.  We  know  it,  but  all  the  world  does 
not,  and  it  .should  know. 

One  poem  by  Bret  Harte  did  more  for  San 
Francisco  than  all  the  railroad  folders  that 
were  ever  scattered  over  the  continent. 

And  more  may  be  done  for  Beautiful  Bur 
lingame  by  these  lyrics  of  Wheaton  H.  Brewer 
than  might  be  done  by  a  lifetime  of  boosting. 

This  is  an  almost  irreverently  practical  view 
to  take  of  a  book  of  poems,  but  we  live  in  a 
practical  age,  and  I  am  appealing  for  this  little 
volume  as  a  souvenir  to  be  scattered  broad 
cast. 

As  for  this  work,  it  speaks  for  itself.  You 
who  read  these  poems  must  instantly  recog 
nize  their  truth  and  beauty.  They  are  some 
thing  more  than  the  homespun  rhymes  of  the 
home-town  bard.  They  are  the  voice  of  youth 

42805S 


in  rapturous  praise  of  beauties  that  are  apt  to 
be  overlooked  simply  because  they  are  every 
where  about  us. 

Burlingame  should  be  as  proud  of  her  poet 
as  her  poet  is  proud  of  Burlingame. 

GEORGE  DOUGLAS. 


BURLINGAME  BALLADS 


"GOOD  MORNING, 
BURLINGAME" 

By  sunbeams  on  the  wall,  I  see, 
It's  past  sunrise,  and  time  for  me 
To  turn  and  stretch,  and  sleepily 

Bid  Burlingame,  "Good  Morning." 

The  curling  smoke,  the  breakfasts  frying, 
The  chickens  clucking,  pigeons  flying, 
The  milkmen,  and  the  busses  plying, 
Bid  Burlingame,  "Good  Morning." 

And  down  the  flower-bordered  street 
Some  strolling  slowly,  some  most  fleet, 
I  hear  the  first  commuters'  feet 

Bid  Burlingame,  "Good  Morning." 

And  all  I  wish  and  hope  and  pray 

Is  that  I  may  find  out  a  way 

To  wake  at  sunrise,  and  each  day 

Bid  Burlingame,  "Good  Morning." 


BURLINGAME  BALLADS 


IN  MY  GARDEN 


In  my  garden,  peonies 
Flaunt  their  crimson  blazonries. 
Hollyhock  and  climbing  rose, 
Contesting  in  my  garden  close, 
Strive  to  lift  a  flowered  head 
Highest  from  the  garden  bed. 

Hourly  from  house  to  house 
Of  Mr.  Mole  and  Mr.  Mouse 
Sedately  ride  the  garden  snails 
Delivering  the  springtime  mails. 
And  teetering  from  leaf  to  leaf 
The  caterpillars  come  to  grief. 

In  my  garden,  darkness  brings 
Unconventional  whisperings. 
Speckled  tree  frogs  come  and  croak 
Serenades  beneath  the  oak. 
Little  breezes,  stealing  through, 
Set  leaves  rustling,  two  by  two. 

Love  and  spring  are  everywhere; — 
In  the  trees,  the  ground,  the  air. 
Violets  brush  their  pretty  lips 
Over  snow-drop  finger  tips. 
Every  flower  has  heard  the  song — 
Beloved,  why  delay  so  long? 


BURLINGAME  BALLADS 


THE  MEADOW  LARKS 

Though  nightingales  have  charmed  the  dreams 
Of  poets  by  Elysian  streams, 
Such  singing  cannot  be  the  same 
As  meadow  larks  in  Burlingame. 

Though  doves  and  skylarks  sing  for  hours 
In  gardens  full  of  blooming  flowers, 
With  a  single  call  they're  put  to  shame 
By  meadow  larks  in  Burlingame. 

Clearer,  sweeter  than  a  fairy  horn, 
There  bursts  the  canticle  of  morn, 
When  the  brown  hills  are  tipped  with  flame, 
From  meadow  larks  in  Burlingame. 


BURLINGAME  BALLADS 


BY  MORNING  LIGHT 

By  morning  light,  the  daffodils 

Bloom  golden  on  the  green  foothills. 

And  at  the  garden's  flowered  plinth 

Glow  even  lines  of  hyacinth. 

The  garden  temple,  crypt  and  nave, 

Reveals  its  lilac  architrave. 

The  congregation,  in  their  places, 

Lift  their  pensive,  pansy  faces 

To  their  dim  priest  in  purple  gloom, 

The  mystic,  hooded  iris  bloom. 

And  steaming  in  the  sun,  the  clods 
Burn  precious  incense  to  spring's  Gods. 


BURUNGAME  BALLADS 


LILAC,  LILAC 


Lilac,  lilac,  lavender  and  white, 
Incense  of  the  spring; 

No  wonder  that  the  birds  alight 
On  your  boughs  to  sing. 

Lilac,   lilac,   beautiful   and   sweet 
Green  and  dim  and  fair; 

My  grandmother  loved  to  meet 
My  grandfather  there. 

Lilac,  lilac,  wonderful  to  me 
Was  the  love  they  knew. 

Old-fashioned  I  would  gladly  be 
Such  love  to  renew. 

Lilac,  lilac,  lavender  and  white, 
Blossom-crowned  above; 

I  shall  come  to  you  tonight 
There  to  meet  my  love. 


10  BURLING AME  BALLADS 


HOME  SONG 

Gold  and  chrysoprase  a  setting  make 
Oh  little  home  of  mine, 

Where  meadowlarks  sing  happily   all  day; 
Where  sparrows  twitter  in  the  vine, 
And  by  the  blue  bay's  gleaming  line 
The  children  laugh  and  play. 

I  leave  you  in  the  early  morning  light 
When  dewdrops  sparkle  clear 

And  the  flowers  wave  a  shy,  aloof  goodbye. 
Yet  through  the  day  you  seem  so  near, 
I  almost  turn  around  to  hear 
The  busses  bumble  by. 

And  every  night  when  I  come  home 

I  simply  have  to  race 
Across  the  buttercups  and  grass  to  see 

That  you  are  safely  in  your  place. 

And  when  I  see  my  garden's  face 
Home  just  smiles  back  at  me. 


BURLINGAME  BALLADS  1 1 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  GARDEN 

There's  a  little  street  in  Burlingame 
Where  old-fashioned  flowers  grow; 

Red  poppies,  vivid  as  a  flame, 
Hollyhocks  in  a  row. 

Heliotrope  and  marigolds 
Beside  the  privet  hedge, 

And  pink  Sweet  William  proudly  holds 
The  boxed-in  window  ledge. 

I  love  to  go  along  that  street 
When  evening  settles  down, 

And  Burlingame,  at  the  foothills'  feet, 
Rests  in  her  flowered  gown. 

The  little  breezes  of  evening  stir, 
And  I  never  shall  forget 

The  fragrance  of  the  lavender — 
The  scent  of  mignonette. 


12  BVRL1NGAME  BALLADS 


MOWING  TIME 
IN  BURLINGAME 

Oh  have  you  smelled  the  new-mown  hay 

As  you  went  swiftly  to  the  train? 
I  always  hate  to  go  away, 
For  I  shan't  walk  for  one  long  day 
Across  that  field  again. 

The  neighbor's  cow  with  dewy  hide 
Looks  pityingly  at  envious  me, 
'Cause  I  must  go  while  she  may  bide 
With  scented  stacks  on  every  side 
As  far  as  she  can  see. 

Oh  placid  cow,  I  envy  you 

Your  hours  by  the  hay-heaped  rack. 
But  still — ,  and  this  is  oh  so  true, 
Perhaps  you  really  never  knew 

The  joy  of  coming  back. 


BVRLINGAME  BALLADS  13 


ROBIN,  ROBIN 

Robins  in  my  garden  all  the  winter  time, 
Draggle-feathered,  hunted  angle  worms. 

Through  the  cold  of  early  frost  and  rime 

They  tackled  every  kind  of  thing  that  squirms. 

And  I  often  wondered,  coming  in  at  dusk, 
Why  those  robins  chose  to  winter  here, 

When  their  fellows  flew  through  groves  of  orange 

musk 
Where  summer  lasts  the  whole  long  year. 

Now  the  early  summer  sets  the  world  in  tune, 
And  I  know  at  last  what  made  the  robins  stay. 

For  they've  built  themselves  a  nest  in  bridal  June, 
And  their  song  grows  clearer,  sweeter  every  day. 

They've  nested  in  the  cypress  near  the  climbing  rose, 
And  three  blue  eggs  are  cuddled  to  the  breast 

Of  the  little  mother,  as  each  summer  breeze  that 

blows 
Rocks  the  cradle  and  its  precious  freight,  to  rest. 


14  BURLING AME  BALLADS 


SUPPER 

I've  cut  the  lawn  and  hosed  the  walk; 

(How  sweet  the  roses  are!) 
The  air  seems  full  of  drowsy  neighbor  talk; 

(And  there's  the  evening  star!) 

I've  trimmed  the  hedge  and  scattered  ash; 

(The  snails  are  bad  this  year!) 
It's  time  now — yes,  up  comes  the  kitchen  sash — 

And  supper  time  is  here. 

Oh  this  is  good;  the  day's  work  through, 

The  garden  put  to  bed; 
A  whole  long  evening  just  between  us  two; 

To  dream  and  plan  ahead. 


BURLINGAME  BALLADS  15 


BRODIAEA  TIME 
IN  BURLINGAME 

Pussywillow  time  has  come  and  gone; 

The  johnny-jump-ups  all  are  dead; 
And  in  the  summer's  dewy  dawn 

No  pale  calchortus  lifts  a  flowered  head. 

But  in  the  fields  of  browning,  seeded  grass, 

One  flower  blooms,  bright,  sturdy,  and  serene; 

For,  as  the  singing  trade  winds  pass, 

The  brodiaeas  reflect  the  blue  sky's  sheen. 

Oh,  gardens  are  most  beautiful, 

And  daisy  laws  are  fair; 
But  the  brodiaeas  in  Burlingame, 

When  summer  hills  are  bare, 

Have  caught  the  shadow  of  the  sky 

When  not  a  cloud  will  pass, 
And  the  brodiaeas  in  Burlingame, 

Hide  heaven  in  the  grass. 


16  BVRLINGAME  BALLADS 


SUMMER 

I  went  a-field  when  Burlingame 

Wore  spring's  new  scarf  of  green  and  gold 
And  poppy  meadows  were  aflame 

With  beauty  that  cannot  grow  old. 

The  lion-hided  summer  hills 

Crouch  silent  by  the  laughing  bay — 
A  silence  that  the  trade  wind  fills 

As  the  blue  waters  steal  away. 

The  poppy  fires  of  spring,  I  knew, 
Were  wonderful.    But  oh,  to  me 

The  tawn  hills  by  the  bay's  still  blue 
Are  more  than  spring  could  ever  be. 


BURLING AME  BALLADS  17 


BURLINGAME 

Stillness,  and  the  cool  of  dew; 

Dawn-freshness  over  dahlia  plots; 
Roosters  laughing  as  they  see 

Commuters  run  cross-lots. 

Hills  lovelier  than  Gilead, 

All  modest,  fringed  with  trees, 

With  scarves  of  fog  about  their  crests — 
The  Georgette  of  the  breeze. 

Whimsey  smoke  that  steals  aloft 
On  highways  of  thin  air — 

For  Burlingame,  as  all  men  know, 
Has  good  roads  everywhere. 

Oh  Burlingame,  home  of  my  home, 
Your  eucalyptus  trees,  like  men, 

March  proudly  up  the  county  road, 
And  then  march  home  again. 


18  BURLING 'AME  BALLADS 

COME  DOWN 
TO  BURLINGAME 

Come  down,  come  down,  to  Burlingame, 

When  dahlias  paint  the  ways, 
Starring  the  homeward  paths  with  flame, 

And  golden,  sunshot  haze; 
And  banks  of  dawn-pink,  hiding  rays 

Of  dark  Black  Beauty's  light, 
And  collarettes,  dim  disks  of  praise; 

Oh  what  a  rainbow  sight ! 

Come  down,  come  down,  when  dahlias  grow 

And  proudly  stand  to  raise 
Large,  floppy  heads  in  row  on  row 

Of  beauty-light  arrays 
Of  Sea  Bright,  Tevis,  with  a  glaze 

From  Copper  King's  dull  blooms, 
And  rhythmic  patterns,  through  the  maze, 
From  Golden  Rod's  gay  looms. 

Come  down,  come  down,  when  Twin  Sixteen 

Its  maiden  homage  pays 
To  Jupiter's  imperious  sheen 

Beneath  Seduction's  gaze, 
Or  Mercy's  floret-tinsled  sprays, 

Or  Sweet  Remembrance,  without  stint, 
Lovely  as  far-heard  roundelays; — 

Or  Delices,  tipped  with  a  second  tint. 

Come  down,  come  down,  when  flowers  flame 

In  row  on  vivid  row. 
Come  down,  come  down  to  Burlingame 

Come  down  when  dahlias  grow. 


BURLING AME  BALLADS  19 


HOME  TO 
BURLINGAME 

It's  getting  darker  every  night, 
And  I  like  to  come  home  in  the  dusk. 
How  many  roses  have  bloomed  today — 
I  can  smell  their  fragrant  musk. 

The  street  is  peaceful  and  quiet  now; 
The  evening  star  is  my  guide. 
The  children  have  gone  to  supper  and  bed, 
As  I  hurry  by  outside. 

Yes,  there's  a  light  in  the  parlor, 
And  the  baby's  awake,  I  see. 
I  wonder  if  I  seem  as  good  to  home 
As  home  seems  good  to  me? 


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